


Madeleine

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s10e04 Home Again, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 02:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10504848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: For the anon who asked: Since you mentioned it, Drabble of Mulder finding Scully’s Darkness Falls jacket while they are in an established relationship?





	

**Author's Note:**

> These went in a different direction then I had planned, but these things so often do. The title was inspired by Proust’s “madeleine moment.”

“And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die.”

Marcel Proust, _Remembrance of Things Past_

***

They’ve been going through the storage room for hours, marveling at the sheer volume of items her mother had held onto. Grandmother Scully’s old dining room set (“Missy threw up pumpkin pie all over it in front of Bill’s first girlfriend”), boxes of trophies, prom pictures bright with taffeta and blue eyeshadow.

There are so many objects, so many minor artifacts that tell the story of a life. The rooms smells musty with cardboard and old paper, the still air making her think of bubbles in amber. She wishes her father’s bay rum aftershave were bottled somewhere, or her mother’s scent; a comforting mix of Jergen’s cherry-almond lotion and wood polish. There are old cookbooks, but the crumbling pages are far removed from warm trays of pecan tassies and Yankee pot roast. Scully dusts off a framed family portrait, she and her siblings smiling with their bowl cuts and polyester. She studies herself, chin tipped up, ribbon streamer barrettes in her hair. “Yikes,” she says. “Maggie loved the double-knit.”

Mulder peers over her shoulder, his presence a comfort in this bittersweet place. “Groovy turtleneck for Bill. And is that Holly Hobbie on Melissa?”

She returns the picture to the box of sports pennants and yearbooks. “What am I going to do with all of this?” She feels overwhelmed by this aftermath, the endless decisions that have poured in through the Maggie-shaped hole in the world.

Mulder stacks boxes of yellowing paperbacks by the entrance.“We’ll call movers to take it to the Goodwill, Scully. Don’t let yourself get stressed about this.”

Weary, she sinks into a horsehair sofa she remembers playing on as a kid. She and Charlie had saddled the arched back with towels and declared it a camel. She looks up at Mulder for guidance, trying to recall what he had done in her place.

He shrugs. “Keep the pictures, donate the rest. I’m guessing you don’t want boxes of old teeth, or your science fair trophies. You nerd.”

“Hey, I did some groundbreaking research on the maze solving abilities of obese hamsters.”

“I hope you published.”

She tightens her ponytail, resolute. “I should at least weed out the trash before I call the Goodwill. Here, what’s that big box behind the breakfront?”

Mulder clambers over a coffee table. “DANA SKI CLOTHES,” he calls in a deep voice. “She wrote it all in caps, so I want to convey appropriate gravitas.”

Ski clothes? She hasn’t been skiing since-

“Ohhhh,” she groans. “That can definitely go.”

“Well now I’m curious,” Mulder says, with his usual contrariness.

Scully hears tape ripping from cardboard.

“Oh, wow. Scully, somewhere in Williamsburg is a hipster just waiting for this sweet loot.” He removes a pair of purple snow pants with overall straps and elastic ankles. “You sure this isn’t the bottom half of a Barney costume?”

She throws a half-deflated football at him. “You know, I seem to recall a few fashion gaffes of yours in the early 90’s too, pal.”

“Mine were never so puffy. And since when do you ski, anyway?”

“I don’t,” she demurs. “That’s why it’s all in a box.”

Mulder pulls on the bright pink goggles and grins at her. “Rose colored glasses.”

“They’re all yours, Pollyanna.”

He rummages further, removing a stack of garish sweaters fit for Bill Cosby. “Pink ski goggles, pink and green gloves, argyle scarf… Scully, this is all very coordinated. You bought this special. Who took you skiing?”

She sighs. “Jack Willis.”

Mulder looks up, surprised. “Really?”

A shrug. “Things were serious for a bit, I guess.” She remembers that weekend now, clumsy on her skis while Jack engaged in shameless frottage as he showed her how to balance. Not unlike Mulder and his hips before hands nonsense, really. Scully smiles to herself.

Mulder tries to jam his hands into the gloves, but there’s not a chance. He opts for the green hat instead. “Hey, I remember this jacket. You wore it on a case in the woods I think, right? The Mothman thing?”

She tries to remember, but is distracted by Mulder in her ridiculous pompom hat and goggles. “I think I did. It was….hmm. Not the Mothman. It was those, uh, the glowy bugs? The cocoon things?”

Mulder brightens. “That’s the one! That was wild.”

Wild, sure. Another case, another hospital stay. She catches the jacket when Mulder tosses it. It smells stale, and the cuffs are dirty. She remembers herself in those lonely woods now, the disappearing light and the collective fear that grew in the dark. She was young and untried but Mulder was there and, even then, something in his presence conveyed comfort. She remembers awaking in bandages, her skin burned from strange enzymes, but feeling safe nonetheless. Alive, in her youth, equalled safe. She went into the woods with him back then, time and again into the waiting mouths of fairy-tale forests. She longs for the confidence of her younger self, the boldness that comes before life has yet to deal a truly terrible blow.  Scully sniffs the jacket again and imagines that she can smell pine and the gas for the generator.

“Put it on,” he says. “Throwback Thursday.”

“It’s Saturday,” she says, reluctant. She feels like a snake trying to wriggle back into a shed skin.

Mulder straddles a dining chair, pouting.

“Fine,” she says, tugging the vibrant, oversized thing on over her gray hoodie. “These colors are absolutely jarring. Some kind of pre-millennial Bacchanal of fashion, I guess.”

Mulder is smiling.

“What?” she asks suspiciously. Her eyes narrow.

“Nothing, it’s cute. You just need some bangs now and it would be like no time has passed.” His voice is wistful.

Scully stands to zip the coat. It sags off of her shoulders, the drawstring bunching up large wads of fabric. “Ugh, I was so…amorphous then.” She remembers her round face with that awful haircut, her shapeless flannels and mom jeans. She wishes someone had told her what she looked like.

“You were voluptuous. I remember having that distinct thought.” He mimes an hourglass figure in the air.

She rolls her eyes, flopping back on the couch. The coat makes a rustling sound. “You just wanted to get laaaaid.”

“Well, yes. But by you, specifically.”

She is surprised. “No you didn’t. Did you? Then?”

Mulder shrugs, pushing the goggles up his forehead. “You came into my hotel room that first night. I remembered what was under all your tapestry vests and rectangular suits.”

“Perv.”

“Pretty much.” Mulder puts the clothing back into the box. “You wanna keep this and go skiing sometime? I’d hate to live in Willis’s shadow.”

Scully reaches out to a box on the floor, withdrawing a handprint Christmas ornament from her nephew. She makes a mental note to send it to Bill. “Nah. Antarctica was enough.”

Mulder’s face darkens. “That whole thing was-”

She holds her palm up to silence him. “It’s in the past, Mulder. Glowing bugs and Mothmen and Antarctica and all of it. It’s done.”

Mulder looks dubious, but adds nothing further. He puts on a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. “A-G-E, N-T-S, C-U-L-L-Y,” he sings in a squeaky voice.

Scully wrinkles her nose. “Come here,” she says, patting the couch. Mulder picks his way through the room, sitting next to her. He lays down on his side, legs tucked up, and rests his head on her lap. His warm breath bleeds through her yoga pants.

“This jacket is comfy,” he says. “Keep it.”

Scully twines her fingers through his hair, tracing the curve of his ear, the stubble at his cheekbone. She snaps the elastic band holding the Mickey ears on.

“Ow!”

She laughs. “You baby.”

He turns to his other side so that he is facing her. He looks up, his pupils dilated in the dim light. The plastic ears are preposterous and adorable. “I didn’t think it would all be like this,” he tells her. His voice is thick.

She presses her lips together. “It’s okay.” What else can she say, really? It’s not particularly okay, but it’s bearable. Most things, she has learned, are bearable.

“Let’s take a vacation,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist. He snuggles against the jacket.

She laughs. “You really want to go skiing.”

“Mmm, no. Not skiing. You remember when we went to Turks and Caicos after Christian’s surgery? Let’s go back.”

She remembers it well. Sapphire skies and topaz water. Mulder had pretty much vetoed her packing anything other than shorts and bikinis. She still has the silk wrap she bought there, and her mind has already conjured up remembered sunsets and dolphins and waterfall hikes.

“Mulder,” she sighs, which is hardly a protest.

“Come on, I have a birthday coming up.” He bats his lashes, which are longer than hers.

She thumbs his lips. “No you don’t.”

“I will later. Come on. My treat, huh? We’ll find a place where Daggoo can stay too. I know how you feel about kennels.” His smile is lopsided.

“Okay,” she says, as they both knew she would.

She is too warm now, Mulder radiating body heat against the puffy coat she’s swaddled in. “Sit up.” He does, removing the Mickey ears. Scully wriggles out of the jacket.

“Hoodie too,” Mulder suggests. “Don’t want you overheating.”

She considers him, his sleepy eyes and messy haystack of hair. His jeans are slouchy at his hips, navy blue t-shirt with a SEE ROCK CITY graphic on it. She takes her hoodie off, and there is nothing under it.

Mulder pats his thighs. “Turnabout is fair play,” he says.

Scully lies down with her head on the soft denim of his worn jeans. He traces infinite circles on her back with his callused fingertips. He hums tunelessly, smoothing her hair away to massage her neck with his thumbs.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, doesn’t remember him carrying her to the back of his truck, where she wakes with her sweatshirt under her head and the ski jacket tucked around her.


End file.
